Sunday, October 9, 2005

I am not Frank OHara

I am not Frank O’Haranor am I a blank slate or canvasyearning for thick chunks of chalkor coarse ugly brushesto write and configure uponall the materials that not like each otherand the friends they remind you of.

I am not Frank O’Harabut that is meon my knees in these old photosI was going to throwing away,you see me looking for a cassette tapeof our favorite Human League albumthat flew my hand when youtried to grab it in some lunge of loveor wrestling hold,it went sailing behind a bookshelfshoved against the wall,tall and heavy, weighted withart books and newspaper piles,you snapped the phototo use against mein some future scenario whenmy dignity would be an issueand to prove, after all, thatI am not Frank O’Hara.

I am not Frank O’Haranor am I concert musiciannor an old Russian man playing chesson a side street in Brooklyn,I am in Californiaunder the eye of an unforgiving sunand the second hand smokeof fires that burn closer to the beachevery day the weather remains dry as Algonquin wit,I am waiting for you to come homeor for the avian flu to perch on my roof,and yes, this long and wonderful dayis done and for all the phone calls,emergencies, angry customers andfriends who will not take your adviceI am glad I am not Frank O’Harabecause I am breathingand reading his poems that makeme want to pick up a penor stroke the keyboardfor words to fill the monitorin wondrous rhymes aboutthe odd turns and twist ofevery spoken word and gestureof finger and hand to facesthat will not lie about howthe heart feels,